by David Blixt
The man on the ground somehow evaded the thrust. Suddenly the horse under Marsilio trembled, and he felt a painful pressure on his leg. Looking down, he saw the gimp’s sword piercing his thigh. He shouted in horror.
But his leg hadn’t been the target. The sword had driven straight into a lung of the horse that carried him. “Patavinitas!” cried his limping attacker, twisting and tearing his blade free. Marsilio cried out again, staring at the foot-soldier with angry brown eyes that were somehow familiar.
No time to place those eyes now. Marsilio was injured, his horse dying. Swiping down with his sword, he dropped the axe and gathered the reins to force the beast’s head around. “To the Piazza delle Biave! We’ll slaughter them in the execution square! Everyone, follow me!”
The Carrarese turned and fled after their master, the Dente in hot pursuit.
♦ ◊ ♦
“Don’t let him get away!” shouted Pietro, grimly satisfied. Now he has a scar to match the one he gave me. It had been a crossbow bolt fired by Carrara that had injured Pietro’s leg.
Dente’s mounted forces were already giving chase with seventy foot-soldiers streaming out of the open alley mouth behind them. Pietro knew he should join them, but distances were not for him, he’d get there too late. To Hell with this! Grabbing the reins of a riderless horse, he clambered into the saddle. “Let’s finish the job!” Spurless as he was, he managed to kick the steed into a gallop.
Nico pulled alongside him. “I’m glad the Scaliger insisted I bring you along!”
It was on the tip of Pietro’s tongue to say he was glad as well. Then his world seemed to stop, a chill passing over him. “What?”
Nico was full of pride. “He didn’t want to order you, but he said that whatever happened, you and I had to be a part of this fight. And he was right! You almost had the bastard!” Seeing Pietro’s stricken look, he added, “Don’t worry! You’ll get him yet!”
Suddenly killing Carrara was far from Pietro’s mind. Cangrande sent me here on purpose. Why? To kill Marsilio? Or to die myself? Which would suit him more?
There was no time to wonder. Carrara had decided to make a stand in the Piazza delle Biave, Padua’s traditional spot for executions. One way or another, Pietro was suddenly sure it would live up to its name.
♦ ◊ ♦
San Bonifacio
Cesco dashed at Cangrande, attempting to throw the Scaliger off-balance with his speed. Cangrande did a pirouette, spinning aside and smacking Cesco on the behind with the flat of his sword. “Impatience is frowned upon.”
“Here, or in the ars moriendi?” retorted Cesco, rubbing his backside.
“In facing a foe or facing death itself, patience is always a virtue.”
“‘Slow but steady wins the race?’ I am horrified to hear you sink to aphorisms.”
“I never said slow. I said patient. Choose your moment, let it come, then strike with all the speed you have.”
Cesco’s arms were almost as tired as the rest of him. “So do you aspire to a tame death, in bed, surrounded by family?”
“Having met my family,” said Cangrande, “I’d rather die alone.”
“What, don’t we measure up?”
“You barely measure up to my breastbone.” The ting-ting of a half-hearted pair of strikes marked a growing boredom. “No, when I die, I hope it will be in a battle of steel. Not an orderly battle, but a desperate fray in which more than life and death hang in the balance. A battle for country, or for God. Something memorable. That’s the best kind of death.”
“Except your death will probably damn your side to failure. Not so good, neh?”
Their sparring had taken on the aspect of a dance. In constant motion, giving and receiving light blows, it became a game of never letting the blade come to rest. They circled and spun around each other to a rhythm only they could hear, a dizzying flow of martial music they composed together at this time, in this place.
The dialogue was important as well. The second level of this trial was to continue a philosophical discussion while slinging steel. Given the subject of their talk, their impromptu ballet qualified as a true Danse Macabre.
“I’ll tell you how I don’t want to go,” said Cangrande, looping his blade across his back to switch hands. “Disease. Illness strips a man of his dignity. An invisible foe causing internal imbalance. No, if I show signs of succumbing to a pest, you have my permission to stab me right through the breast.” He emphasized the statement with a left-handed thrust.
Cesco parried, then performed a pair of his own twists of the blade, the first to knock away Cangrande’s true edge, the second to slice at his ear. “That would be an amazing grant of trust, were anyone here to hear it. Tell me, do you feel the same about poison?”
“I would,” said Cangrande, ducking, “except you’ve shown that one can come out the other side. Besides, with poison, there must be a poisoner. If it was my last act, I would have them exposed and hanged.”
Somehow Cesco kept the patter of swords and words alive. “‘Vengeance is mine,’ sayeth the Lord. What about starvation?”
“As a means of dying, it goes both ways. Self-starvation is a good death, enforced starvation a bad one.”
“None of these sound appealing.”
Cangrande laughed. “So don’t die.”
Cesco heard more than challenge in that laugh – he heard disdain. Hardly aware of what he was doing, Cesco brought both swords to a crashing halt and pressed in, locking his guard against Cangrande’s. With unexpected venom he hooked Cangrande’s right knee just as Nico had shown him and pressed fiercely forward with his sword. The Scaliger lost balance, and Cesco rode the grown man to the ground.
Sitting atop Cangrande’s chest, swords bound tight, Cesco’s anger dissolved as quickly as it had come. “Now may we eat?”
♦ ◊ ♦
Padua
Marsilio’s horse died just as he reached the Piazza delle Biave. Leaping from the saddle, Carrara pressed himself against a wall as the fighting spilled out into the open square.
A man wearing his own colours staggered past, bleeding from a dent in his skull. Grabbing the dying foot soldier, Carrara used the knife at his belt to slice a rent in the man’s tunic, tearing the cloth into strips to bind his wounded leg, all the while using the dying man for cover. Once the blood-flow was stanched, he left the man to die. He had a revolt to put down.
The Piazza delle Biave was not Padua’s widest public square, but it was the most commonly used, possessing a high wide dais, an excellent place to carry out executions. Public executions were as popular here as anywhere else, and in this lawless time there were no shortage of victims - unlike lawful Verona, which imported foreign criminals just to satisfy the crowd’s lust for blood.
Limping up onto the dais, Marsilio surveyed the mêlée. All his enemies wore helmets, hiding their coward faces. But it made allies easier to pick out.
He spied a young red-headed Paduan atop a massive war-horse, old but sturdy, and fully barded. In fact, the beast looked far more prosperous than its owner, who wore half-armour pieced together from battlefield remnants. The impoverished red-head killed one of Dente’s men, his horse biting the arm of another, leaving the man momentarily unopposed.
Limping to the edge of the dais, Marsilio shouted, “You!”
The red-headed man spurred closer. “My lord? Are you hurt?”
The horse looked familiar, the man did not. “Your horse! Now!”
“My – my horse?” the red-head echoed reluctantly.
“Now!” Marsilio shoved the man out of the saddle and climbed into his place.
“Take care of him!” cried the red-head in desperation. “He’s my only horse!”
Marsilio didn’t hear him, already looking around for the two Dente leaders. Seeing Paolo, he gave the mount the heel of his boot and it started off. Only looking down at its fine neck armour did he recognize the beast – it had once belonged to Vinciguerra, Count of San Bonifacio. How bizarre t
hat Carrara should be riding it now against another traitor.
“My name is Benedick!” shouted the red-head, running alongside. “I live by San Tommaso! You can return it there—”
“Get away from me!” shouted Carrara as he plunged into his enemies, hacking. Someone stabbed a spear at the horse’s chest and Benedick threw himself forward to grasp it. Wrenching it free, he reversed it and began swinging it wildly before him. “Stay away from my horse!”
Two men fell, and several more backed away. Benedick’s fighting impressed Marsilio, but his ferocity had the counter-productive effect of keeping enemies away from Marsilio’s blade. Whichever way he moved, Benedick would counter, putting himself between his beloved horse and danger, in effect keeping Marsilio out of the fray.
Frustrated, Marsilio smacked the flat of his blade against Benedick’s head. The red-head dropped to the ground and Marsilio rejoined the fighting.
Once engaged, Marsilio became a rallying point for the Carrarese. They clustered around him, fighting hard. His cousin Marsilietto Papafava appeared on his right. Further off to the left his cousin Niccolo da Carrara appeared with his son Giacomo, fighting as hard as any of them. Family. A wretched nuisance, but at least I can rely on them to fight.
Marsilio risked a glance up at the walls. Heinrich’s soldiers stood unmoving, watching the fight unfold. Damn your hides! Marsilio vowed that if he survived, he’d make every one of them pay.
But survival was becoming less likely each second. Cousin Marsilietto screamed as a sword had caught him full in the teeth, shattering them and breaking his jaw.
Distracted by his cousin’s broken mouth, Marsilio missed the spear-thrust that caught his borrowed horse in the breast. The foot-soldier drove the haft in hard and deep, killing the beast at once. Carrara fell to the earth for a second time.
Sensing victory, the rebel forces cheered and pressed their advantage.
Using the bodies of the dead and wounded to protect his flanks, Marsilio da Carrara stabbed and hacked upwards, sword glued to his naked hand with gore. He heard a scream behind him, but couldn’t break off to look. His cousin Niccolo was screaming, “My nose! My nose!” Absurdly, Marsilio laughed. Typical Niccolo, to earn so ridiculous a wound. Imagine losing a nose!
Then Marsilio heard Niccolo’s son shouting, “Father, stay! If you quit this fight, you will never return to Padua!”
That was the truth. They had to hold. But the spirits of Dente’s men were swelling, while Carrara’s side was faltering. Dente’s forces were closing around them, encircling them, cutting them off from any possibility of retreat. Paolo Dente himself came into view, screaming with joy, his vengeance nigh.
Throwing away his helmet, Marsilio gave a full-throated roar. “Dente! Come and face me! I dare you! Come on! Take the chance of hate!”
Hearing his name, Dente gave Marsilio a mocking salute with his sword. Spurring closer, the two men fell to fighting, one high, one low.
Carrara’s men closed in beside him, sensing this was the end for them, and determined to bring down the man behind their doom before the eternal night felled them all.
Marsilio parried a blow from Dente’s sword, then used his guard to punch Dente’s horse in the mouth. The beast reared and Marsilio felt himself flung backwards, caught by one of the spiked hooves. Landing on his side, he started to rise but was stepped on by one of his own men.
Buffeted by the crush, Carrara was reminded of a duel long ago, when he’d fought Dante’s son. He’d knocked the impudent shit to the ground just like this. Marsilio wondered if that bastard Alaghieri had felt the same fatalistic certainty, the sure knowledge that his life was finished.
Alaghieri had been saved by Cangrande’s intervention. Unlike now, when there was no hope of salvation. This is not how I was meant to die! I should die at the hands of foreign foes, not my own countrymen! What’s the matter with us? Padua, you are your own worst enemy!
At least Cangrande isn’t here to see this. How he will laugh when he hears! Marsilio imagined the sound of Cangrande’s profane laughter…
But that wasn’t the sound in his ears. It was a trumpet. Whose? Over the screaming of men and clashing of metal, Marsilio couldn’t tell. Were the Germans moved to help at last? Or more of Dente’s men, riding in to mop up?
A hand clasped his arm, hauling him up to stand. Cousin Giacomo, with tears in his eyes. “Peraga! It’s Peraga!”
Fighting mightily against the crush, Marsilio saw the Dente forces had turned to face a new threat. The loyal Giacomino da Peraga and his men-at-arms were riding into the square, mauling Dente’s forces from the rear.
Feeling a sunburst of fresh hope, Marsilio threw himself forward in renewed attack. But the rebels were already pulling off, moving down through alleyways not yet blocked.
Moments later Peraga was close at hand, smiling down through the cheek-pieces of his helmet. “Sorry it took so long,” said Peraga. “I only got your message after dawn.”
Marsilio frowned. “My message?”
“That Dente was attacking this morning. I armed my men at once, but it took time to get here.”
Young Giacomo rounded on his cousin in incredulous rage. “You knew?”
“No!” said a bewildered Marsilio. “I sent no note. It seems we have an unknown benefactor.” The young man opened his mouth. “No time for that now! Peraga, can you lend me a horse? I want to be in the thick of it when we crush Dente and all his followers!”
♦ ◊ ♦
From immanent victory, the Dente faction was suddenly fighting for their lives. Paolo still tried to snatch at victory, but the fresh Peraga soldiers were too much, and both he and Vitaliano were swept away from Marsilio.
Pietro and Nico were working their way towards where Marsilio had fallen when the sudden rush of mounted Paduans forced them to join in a full retreat. So close! Pietro raked his eyes over the spot where Marsilio had fallen, but couldn’t tell in the throng who was still living.
A Paduan came screaming at Pietro, swinging a long-chained morning star. Pietro ducked low, letting the horrible spiked ball pass hissing and rattling overhead. At the same moment he stabbed, his sword piercing the man’s hip. The Paduan screamed and reeled away.
Pietro’s relief was shattered by a war cry from his other side, and he turned to see a blade driving at his breast. Gasping, Pietro froze, already imagining the blade entering his body. But the attacker faltered. Slowly lowering his sword, the Paduan took his left hand from its grip and touched his breast. Raising his hand to the light, he saw blood on his fingertips. Then he keeled over, dead.
An arrow protruded from the man’s chest, the back end of the shaft pointing towards Pietro. He saw black duck feathers at the end of the shaft and felt a thrill. The telltale fletching of the Moor.
Pietro spun around as another man fell, dropped by the Moor’s second arrow. “Tharwat!” He scanned the rooftops but there was no sign of al-Dhaamin. “Tharwat!”
Nico dragged on Pietro’s reins as well as his own. “Let’s go!”
“But Tharwat—”
“We stay and we die!”
Nico was right, Carrara’s men were attacking on all sides. Grasping his reins, Pietro joined Paolo Dente’s remaining forces as they retreated in good order to the walls. From there they scattered, Dente in the lead.
Riding away, Pietro realized he was fleeing a battle for the first time in his life. Covered in sweat, he made certain his helmet was in place, praying no one had recognized him.
Two thoughts kept rattling around his brain, one comforting, the other infuriating.
Tharwat had been there, watching over him. He remembered the Paduan who’d seemed to trip and not risen. And how Nico’s foe seemed to just fall out of his saddle. How many other times had the Moor stepped in to rescue them without their knowledge?
That comforting thought was drowned out by the image of the Paduans riding to Marsilio’s rescue at the end. Those men had been fully armed. But they hadn’t had time to arm t
hat well unless they were warned.
Which means we were betrayed.
Pietro knew by whom.
♦ ◊ ♦
San Bonifacio
“I suppose I’m lucky,” said Cangrande, cracking his mutton-bone to suck the marrow. “Has no one ever taught you the meaning of sparring? The goal is not to kill your partner.”
“You mean sword-fighting isn’t about killing? I have so much to learn…” Cesco gnawed on a small slice of his master’s mutton.
Cangrande continued as if Cesco hadn’t spoken. “Still, it’s a good thing your fit of temper didn’t take my life. You’d have a hard time explaining that. Nor is it how I’d like to pass from this world.”
“Not a good death?”
“At your hands? Definitely not. Accidental deaths are all well and good, but only in a noble cause. I’m not sure training you is noble enough.”
“So an accidental death in battle is good, in regular life it’s not?”
“In regular life it’s laughable.” Cangrande threw his bare bone over a shoulder. “War is the high point of human endeavor, it earns a man eternal glory.”
“I think the artists might object,” observed Cesco wryly.
“Really? One poet in a generation may last the test of time. The same is true of painters, musicians, sculptors. Philosophers come and go like women’s fashions. And no one remembers lawyers.”
“There is always l’amour.”
Cangrande scoffed. “Lovers are remembered only if their love is doomed – Guinevere and Lancelot, Antony and Cleopatra, Pyramus and Thisbe, Troilus and Cressida – the list is nearly endless, and again, they’re remembered for how they died, not what they died for.” Cangrande stood. “Which returns us to my earlier question. What is it Man desires most?”
